


Origin Stories

by there_must_be_a_lock



Series: Coffee & Psychopaths [3]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Coffee And Cigarettes But Geeky, Doctor Who References, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trip, Soft Dorky Male Friendship, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: Spencer blinks, momentarily distracted, before he argues, “It’s not just the violent crime! The prevalence of methicillin-resistant Staphyloccocus aureus on motel coffee pots —”“Jesus. You’re serious.”“Not that nicer hotels aren’t covered in pathogens, but at least they usually do their laundry,” Spencer continues, on a roll now. “Do you have any idea how many sexually transmitted infections can be spread through contact with unwashed sheets? This is how you get crabs, Samuel.”“Wow.”“Not to mention bedbugs, mites, any number of fungal —”“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Sam interrupts firmly.
Relationships: Spencer Reid & Sam Winchester
Series: Coffee & Psychopaths [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871419
Comments: 47
Kudos: 233





	Origin Stories

_“Your head's like mine, like all our heads; big enough to contain every god and devil there ever was. Big enough to hold the weight of oceans and the turning stars. Whole universes fit in there! But what do we choose to keep in this miraculous cabinet? Little broken things, sad trinkets that we play with over and over. The world turns our key and we play the same little tune again and again and we think that tune's all we are.”_

_-Grant Morrison, “The Invisibles”_

-

If Spencer was a cartoon, he’d have steam pouring out of his ears right now. His questions petered out about twenty minutes ago (which is good, because Sam has already talked himself hoarse) and since then, he’s been sitting in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, lost in thought. Every so often, he mouths something to himself, almost soundless, just his lips moving. 

Sam’s just given him the basics, too: ghosts, vampires, witches, angels, demons. 

He hasn’t really gotten into the situation with Lucifer and the apocalypse. He’s still not sure if he’ll be able to talk about the Cage. 

Spencer had been so busy asking questions they hadn’t really set a destination as they left Ankeny this afternoon; they just agreed to avoid the big highways wherever possible. Sam’s been through this part of the country so many times that he can navigate a lot of the secondary roads without a map, so he’s been driving in a vaguely southeastern direction, watching Spencer out of the corner of his eye and hoping he rallies. 

Spencer looks greenish and pale, though, and Sam’s starting to worry.

“Are you okay?” Sam asks hesitantly. 

Spencer turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Do you have any idea what that all means? Spirits, and possession, and… ” 

“Yeah, sorry, it’s a lot to take in,” Sam says sheepishly. 

“No, I mean… _physics_.” There’s a panicky edge to Spencer’s voice. “What you’ve just told me defies most of the known laws of physics. It changes _everything_.” His fingers twitch like he’s itching for a piece of paper and a pencil, probably so that he can rewrite all those laws.

“Maybe we should stop for dinner,” Sam suggests. “Or at least coffee.” 

“We should absolutely stop for coffee,” Spencer says fervently. 

“There’s a town in a few miles, I think. I saw a sign.” 

There’s silence for a minute, and then Spencer says, quiet and subdued, “I used to want to be a magician when I grew up.”

Sam should really expect the non sequiturs by now. 

“That was my favorite thing,” Spencer continues. “Sleight of hand magic. Making quarters disappear, card tricks, those sorts of illusions. I practiced for hours. And now… you’re telling me _real_ magic exists.” 

Sam chuckles a little at that. “It’s complicated, but… yeah.” 

“I just… feel like my world just got a lot bigger,” Spencer says, soft and unsure. He blinks like he’s waking up and then looks around. “Hey, wait, where are we going?” 

“Wherever you want,” Sam says. “Somewhere new?” 

“Almost all of it is new for me,” Spencer confesses. “I’ve been to a lot of police stations in a lot of towns, but… never really had a chance to connect the dots. What about you? Anywhere you haven’t been?” 

Sam grimaces slightly. “Not really. Aside from the four years I was at school, that’s all I remember: motels and fast food and sitting in the backseat. Isn’t much to see in Iowa, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen all of it.” 

“Well...” Spencer thinks for a second, and then he says hopefully, “I’ve got a friend in New Orleans.” 

“Works for me.” 

“Coffee first?” 

“Coffee first.” 

-

“Sleight of hand, huh?” 

Spencer finishes dumping sugar in his coffee mug and shrugs. He’s been teased enough for that, over the years, that his gut reaction is still to shy away, bracing himself for the inevitable cutting comments. He knows Sam isn’t like that, but it’s a deep-rooted instinct by now. 

“Do you remember how to do it?” Sam asks. 

“Yeah. You know, little stuff. Things you’d see at a kid’s birthday party.” When he looks up, Sam’s watching him curiously. “It’s come in handy a couple times, actually.” 

“Can I see?” 

“Really?” Spencer asks reluctantly. 

“You got somewhere else to be?” 

Spencer hesitates, oddly self-conscious. 

“Why?” he asks bluntly. “You’ve seen the real thing.”

It’s not that he ever minds showing people, he usually loves it, and Sam seems genuinely interested. It’s just that after everything he’s learned today, the skill he used to be so proud of feels _small_. 

“Never really got to go to many birthday parties as a kid,” Sam replies, with a little twist of his mouth. 

“No, really.” 

Sam hesitates before saying, “That’s magic for — I don’t know, warding demons. Making people bleed out through their eyeballs.” He shrugs, looking down at his coffee mug. “What you do? That’s just to make people happy. That’s… more unusual. Especially in my line of work.” 

Spencer can’t help but smile at that. He digs in his pocket and comes up with a penny. 

“If you were a small child, we’d have a very serious conversation about how this is a magic penny,” he says dryly. “But I think we can skip that part.” 

He holds it up, tracking the way Sam’s gaze follows the metal. He’s got a serious, determined look on his face, like if he pays attention he might be able to catch how it’s done. Spencer grins, and the coin disappears with a flick of his fingers. 

“How’d you do that?” Sam asks intently. 

“You’ve got something on your —” Spencer points out, and he reaches across the table as if he’s going to brush something off Sam’s shoulder. When he sits back, he’s holding the coin again. Sam’s mouth drops open. 

Spencer’s done it so many times it’s almost automatic by now, but the way people smile, the wide eyed-surprise, never gets old. Maybe Sam was right. The reaction might be small, but it doesn’t feel insignificant. 

“Can you teach me?” Sam asks. 

“Seriously?” 

“I mean, yeah. You’re good at that. And like you said, it’s come in handy, right?” 

“Mostly for entertaining children,” Spencer says wryly. “But it did get me a girl’s number once. And there was a case where I had to smuggle a microchip into a hostage situation.” 

Sam blinks. “That’s… huh. Can I ask why?” 

“I had to cut someone open without him seeing it so that I could pretend to pull it out of him,” Spencer says matter-of-factly. The way Sam’s eyebrows shoot up is oddly satisfying. 

“Can you teach me?” 

Spencer shrugs. “If you want. Okay, here, I’ll show you again and — wait. Can you teach me real magic?” 

Sam grimaces, but Spencer puts on his best puppy eyes. 

“We’ll see,” Sam says begrudgingly. 

Good enough. Spencer can work with _we’ll see_. 

He holds up the penny again and says, “Watch carefully.” 

-

It’s fully dark by the time they come out of the diner, and Sam’s starting to feel tired, but he knows it’ll be a few hours before he can sleep. Too much coffee. 

“Your turn to drive?” Sam asks, fishing in his pocket for the keys. Spencer nods and Sam tosses him the keys without really thinking about it. 

Spencer lets out an alarmed sort of _meep_ noise, ducking and swatting at the keys before his reflexes kick in, and then he snatches them before they drop. Sam snorts, managing to contain himself for about two seconds before he’s full-on laughing. 

“Sorry,” he says, still chuckling. Spencer is red-faced but he’s smiling sheepishly at himself, so Sam doesn’t feel bad for asking, “ _How_ are you an FBI agent?” 

“Technically I shouldn’t be,” Spencer admits reluctantly. “Gideon had to sort of… waive the fitness test. Anyway, I wasn’t expecting you to start throwing things at me.” 

“Uh huh.” Sam folds himself down into the little black Prius that’s theirs for the next few days. They’d gone for fuel efficiency over legroom.

“When I’m walking into a potentially dangerous situation, I’m a little more alert,” Spencer says primly. 

“Who’s Gideon?” 

He’s not sure Spencer’s going to answer for a moment. He’s making a show of adjusting mirrors, fiddling with the height of the seat, but he finally starts the car. It barely makes any noise; Sam keeps having split-second moments of panic, thinking that the engine’s died, before remembering that this isn’t Baby. 

“Gideon was my mentor,” Spencer finally says. “Left here?”

“Right.” 

“He’s the one who —”

“Other right!” 

Spencer makes a face and swings the car around abruptly. “Sorry. I don’t drive much.”

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know,” Spencer says. “I mean, I haven’t been driving as long as most of them, I guess. And Derek usually volunteers, because he’s always hoping for a high-speed chase. He tells me to just sit there and look pretty.” Spencer swings lazily into the other lane without signaling, and Sam winces. “So, can _anyone_ do magic? Or is it something you have to be born with?” 

“Nice try.” Sam’s getting a pretty good idea of why Spencer’s team doesn’t let him drive. “You were saying? Gideon?” 

“Gideon was my mentor,” Spencer continues. “He was the one who recruited me for the B.A.U. He was… he _is_ brilliant. I don’t know where I’d be, if he hadn’t convinced me to join the F.B.I.” 

“Is he still — look out!” 

“Oops.”

“Is he still part of the team?”

“No. He left. He didn’t really tell me — tell anyone that he was going. He left a note.” Spencer’s speeding up, gradually, foot pressing the accelerator a little harder as the words start to come quick and clipped. “Addressed to me, actually. He knew I’d be the one to come looking for him.” 

“You guys were close?” 

“He was the closest thing I had to a father,” Spencer says, with a forced attempt at a smile. “For a while, at least. For certain definitions of what a father should be. Not really the same though.” 

“What’s your definition?” 

Spencer’s silent for a moment, and Sam can see his knuckles going pale with the way he’s gripping the steering wheel. 

“They’re the ones who shape you, I guess,” Spencer says uncertainly. “They give you a starting point for your own story. Even if it’s only on a genetic level, it starts with our parents: who we are and who we will be.”

Sam thinks of his own father, choosing to walk away time after time, until the night Sam walked out on him instead. It had felt like a clean slate, a blank page, like Sam could go off and be whoever he wanted to be, now, but that wasn’t really the case. His father had always influenced his path; Sam wanted to go wherever his dad _wasn’t_. 

He thinks of Bobby, and Dean. “I don’t think that’s the important part, though. My dad wasn’t the one who… taught me things.” 

“True,” Spencer agrees. He swerves to avoid an unidentifiable piece of roadkill, and Sam flinches. “That’s where Gideon came in. He showed me… who I _could_ be, I guess. But whether I like it or not, my life was shaped by my father, and by his absence.”

“It’s funny, I always know what my dad would say, if he could see me,” Sam admits. “Not that I’d ever want to follow his advice, but… can practically hear his voice.” 

“Yeah?” Spencer asks curiously. He keeps looking at Sam instead of the road. 

“Dude, stop trying to profile me while you’re driving.” 

“I’m not!” Spencer insists, but he sneaks another glance at Sam immediately. 

“Dean was the one who took care of me, though,” Sam says. The memory of Dean walking away without protest, without even trying to apologize for what he’d done, sends a dull twist of pain through Sam’s ribs. 

“How much older is Dean?” Spencer asks. 

“Eyes on the road, fuck! Four years.” 

“And he was —” 

“Yeah. Not old enough to be taking care of anyone, really,” Sam says grimly. Spencer opens his mouth to ask another question, but before he can get there, Sam cuts him off: “Okay, pull over. I’m driving.” 

-

Spencer wakes up when the car stops. He stretches out his neck, looking out the window; for some reason, Sam has parked in front of an absolute dump of a motel. 

“Why are we stopped?” he asks blearily. 

“Gotta sleep sometime. I’m about done for the night.” 

“Here? You’re kidding, right?” Spencer frowns.

“Why would I be kidding?” Sam asks, the sincere confusion on his face illuminated clearly by the green light of the neon “Vacancy” sign. 

“I am _not_ staying here.” 

“You’re such a snob,” Sam laughs. “C’mon, it’s not that bad. I’ve stayed in hundreds of these places, no exaggeration.” 

“Do you know how many crime scenes I’ve investigated in motels very similar to this one?” Spencer counters. 

“You’ve investigated crime scenes _everywhere_.” 

Spencer crosses his arms stubbornly. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been killed, living in places like this.” 

“Well, actually —” Sam cuts himself off abruptly. 

Spencer blinks, momentarily distracted, before he argues, “It’s not just the violent crime! The prevalence of methicillin-resistant Staphyloccocus aureus on motel coffee pots —” 

“Jesus. You’re serious.” 

“Not that nicer hotels aren’t covered in pathogens, but at least they usually do their laundry,” Spencer continues, on a roll now. “Do you have any idea how many sexually transmitted infections can be spread through contact with unwashed sheets? This is how you get _crabs_ , Samuel.” 

“Wow.” 

“Not to mention bedbugs, mites, any number of fungal —” 

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Sam interrupts firmly. “I get the picture.” He starts the car again and pulls away. “This is what we can usually afford, though. I know you said you wanted to pay —” 

“Believe me, I am happy to pay if it means avoiding hepatitis,” Spencer interjects. He feels dirty just from _looking_ at that place. 

Sam laughs. “No, really, I don’t want —” 

“Teach me some real magic and we’ll call it even,” Spencer says. 

“Man, you are persistent.” Sam shakes his head, and Spencer grins. “Yeah, okay. Fine.” 

“Can I ask…” Spencer hesitates. He’s pretty sure it’s none of his business, but he’s so curious he can’t help himself. 

“Shoot.” 

“How do you usually make money?” he asks. “I mean… if you’re on the road all the time, and — wait. Do I want to know? Are we talking petty crime, or —” 

“Well…” Sam says gingerly. “Some of it, at least. We don’t steal, or anything like that, we’d never — but most of it isn’t strictly legal.” 

Spencer rubs the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

“Hustling pool, mostly,” Sam offers. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Dean and I have a whole bit that we do, and then… yeah. You know. Betting. Pretending you’re a lot more drunk than you are, so they think they’ve got it in the bag.” 

“Oh.” Spencer is forcibly reminded, for a moment, how very different their lives have been. 

“Actually… want to find a dive bar? I could make enough to pay you back, easy. Bet you’d be good at it, too.” 

“At pretending to be drunk?” Spencer asks dubiously. “I’ve never actually _been_ drunk. Also, I’m terrible at pool.”

“Seriously? It’s all geometry and physics.”

“Well, it’s also about hand-eye coordination,” Spencer grumbles. “Maybe I’d be better now, but… it’s one thing to _know_ what to do, it’s another thing entirely to translate that to movement.” 

He remembers the one and only time Elle had attempted to teach him. It went so badly he’s never tried again. 

Sam still looks shocked. “And you’ve really never been drunk?” 

“Not really,” Spencer admits. He picks at a thread on the sleeve of his sweater, embarrassed even though he knows it’s nothing to be ashamed of. “No more than tipsy, anyway.” 

“How can that —” Sam starts, and then cuts himself off. “Never mind. None of my business.” 

“I was twelve when I started undergraduate studies,” Spencer reminds him flatly. Twelve, and friendless. “It’s fine, anyway. It’s not like that’s the only stereotypical teenage rite of passage I’ve missed.”

It’s not like he isn’t curious. It’s not like he hasn’t had opportunities, either, but his coworkers already spend enough time taking care of him, and drinking alone just seems like an awful idea. 

“Right. Well, we should change that,” Sam tells him. 

Spencer gives him a sideways look, suspicious. “Really?” 

“Maybe not tonight, I’m wiped out, but hey, we’re going to New Orleans, so — hey, does this look any better?” He’s pulled into the parking lot of a hotel, and Spencer gives it an appraising look. 

“Yeah, this works,” he concedes. He’s trying to sound indifferent, but he’s smiling when he adds, “And… okay.” 

-

“Plus I sleep with the lights on. Anyway, Morgan said it was like sharing a room with a construction crew, but a construction crew made of squirrels, so… we get our own hotel rooms now,” Spencer concludes absent-mindedly, pressing the button repeatedly until the elevator doors start to shut behind them. “Besides, I just like my space.” 

“You’re _such_ an only child,” Sam says, laughing. 

“I need to write a letter to my mom, too,” Spencer adds. “Remind me to find a post office tomorrow?” 

“Do you write her often?” Sam asks. 

“Every day. She keeps them.” The expression on his face is soft and fond, and Sam wonders what that’s like, to have the sort of relationship with a parent where they hold onto every word you share. 

“Ever think about writing a book?” 

“I don’t think I’ve done anything worth writing about,” Spencer answers, with a shrug. 

“You’re kidding, right?” The elevator doors open and Sam leads the way out into the hallway. It’s disorienting in the same way hotel corridors always are: the endless patterned carpet, the silence, the sameness, nothing changing except the numbers on the identical doors. 

“None of it’s _me_ , really. It’s the team,” Spencer says modestly. “‘Be the hero of your own story,’ right? I don’t feel like it’s my story to tell.” 

“Joseph Campbell?” Sam asks, and Spencer nods. 

“Maybe someday, when I figure out how to do that... then I can write it.” 

Spencer swipes his key card the wrong way three times before Sam grabs it and does it for him. 

“Hey,” Sam says, fiddling with his own key, and Spencer pauses in the open doorway. “Thank you.” 

It doesn’t feel like enough, but he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Spencer gives him a tired half-smile and says, “Any time. Goodnight.” 

When the door closes behind him, Sam unlocks his own room. He feels clumsy and off-kilter when he steps inside, and he takes a minute to stop, to take it in, before dropping his backpack on the floor. It’s such a far cry from the places he’s used to; everything is white and taupe and _clean_. 

It feels empty, and for a moment Sam can’t figure out why. Then he realizes what it is. Dean’s not there. 

Sam can imagine what he’d say, though. _Where are the Magic Fingers, Sammy? Hmm?_ Dean would pretend to turn up his nose, and Sam would pretend not to see the wistfulness behind it. 

It just doesn’t feel right, without Dean. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and flips it open. No new messages. He could call, but he doubts Dean would pick up. 

Sam shakes his head, shuts his phone, and heads for the shower. 

-

They’ve been driving through cornfields since they left the hotel. Spencer tucks his knees up to his chest, curling up like a kid, hypnotized by the steady blur of the yellow lines. It’s still early enough that the breeze is cool where it comes in the open windows, but the sky is clear and wide and blue. 

Spencer has to fight the urge to chatter to fill the silence. There are hundreds of statistics he can think of, just off the top of his head, but they’re mostly related to murders and deaths in rural areas. Those are the sorts of things he should keep to himself. 

“This is really how you spent your childhood?” he asks. 

“Pretty much.”

“And I always thought _I_ grew up lonely,” Spencer mutters. 

Sam laughs and says, “I always had Dean.” A bitter edge creeps into his voice. “Or… I did, until he started going with my dad, I guess. Had an imaginary friend for a while.” 

“What did you do?” 

“Watched a lot of TV. Read a lot of books. Not a lot of friends, but… yeah. Books.” 

“I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn that I also had a lot more books than friends,” Spencer deadpans. 

Sam snorts. “We each usually had one book that we took with us,” he says, almost fondly, even though he’s describing Spencer’s nightmare. “Dean had one of those illustrated kids’ encyclopedias, all about Star Wars, with the ship diagrams and everything. Then when he got older it was Watchmen. He must’ve read it a thousand times.” 

“And what about you?” Spencer asks. 

“When I was really young? A big collection about the Knights of the Round Table.” He’s silent for a moment, and when he starts talking again he sounds self-conscious, like he’s admitting something he’s been told should embarrass him: “Later though… whenever we settled in a new place, I’d find the closest library. First thing I did. Talked them into giving me a card, sometimes, but I couldn’t always do that, ‘cause we didn’t have any mail with a local address on it, you know?” He hesitates for a long moment. “But I could sit there, at least. And it was like… I don’t know.” 

“Being home,” Spencer offers. He fiddles with the sleeve of his coffee, takes a sip, and then looks out the window, because this is the sort of honesty that’s much easier when you’re not looking someone in the eye. 

“A lot of my favorites were at every library. So I could come into a new library for the first time, get a little lost, have to figure out the layout, but then… I don’t know. It’s stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid,” Spencer insists. 

“It felt like seeing a friend again. Like I really knew them: Gandalf, Pip, Sherlock Holmes, King Arthur.” 

Spencer grins. “Holmes was my favorite.” 

“What we were talking about yesterday —” Sam pauses. “Felt like maybe some of them raised me more than my dad did. They felt more _real_ to me, sometimes, than he was. You know how — well, he’s part of me, right? But so are all those stories. Not sure I could forget if I tried.” 

“Like you’re carrying them with you,” Spencer says quietly, and he’s not thinking of his own parents, but Tobias Hankel. He hasn’t thought of him in a while, but the memories are oddly close to the surface; maybe it’s all the cornfields. He shivers. 

“Used to imagine the advice they’d give me,” Sam says, so softly it’s like he’s forgotten Spencer is there. “I knew I didn't want to be my dad, but… when I thought about who I really looked up to, who I wanted to _be_ , other than Dean, it was characters in books, mostly.” 

“Who?” 

“Sir Galahad.” Sam lets out a self-deprecating little chuckle. “From when I was a little kid, even. I remember Dean reading that King Arthur book to me when I was… shit, I was young.” 

“My mom used to read to me too.” It’s one of the first things he remembers. She read, and Spencer got to go somewhere else for a while. “Even when she was too sick to take care of herself, even when she wasn’t getting out of bed for days at a time… that was her way of taking care of me.”

“Dean, too.” There’s a long, heavy silence before Sam says hoarsely, “Nobody ever read to him, though.” 

Spencer doesn’t know what to say to that. He swallows the lump in his throat and looks out the window. He feels small, suddenly, as he stares up at the endless blue sky.

-

They haven’t exchanged a word since lunch, almost an hour now. There’s just the radio, volume low, tuned to a jazz station that Spencer chose. Sam’s gotten used to classic rock, at deafening levels. This is nice. 

He can’t stop thinking about how much Spencer has changed since they met. 

Spencer seems _tired_ , like he’s aged a decade in the last two years, and he’s gotten more guarded, in some ways. He’s becoming more sure of himself: confident in the way that only comes from experience. Sam’s familiar with that, the way a job like either of theirs can change you, but it’s more than that. 

He’s been hearing it over the phone, too, gradually, but he didn’t realize until they were face-to-face again. Now it’s hard to ignore the difference. 

When they met, Spencer was twitchy and awkward and uncertain, but he always seemed _excited_ about things. He’d go off on tangents, blurt out whatever was on his mind, seemingly without being able to filter himself. Maybe it led to some incredibly strange conversations, but Sam didn’t mind. Spencer’s face always lit up with joy whenever he thought of some interesting fact, statistic, theory, whatever. 

He seems to have a better idea, now, of when he should censor himself. It’s not that he doesn’t find the same joy in those random bits of information; Sam can hear the excitement in his voice whenever he does share. It’s more like he’s a little too aware of how others might react. He’s learned that people don’t always want to hear about the things that make him happy. 

_Oh, he just walked away from me,_ Spencer had said, once, recounting a story about Morgan. Like it was nothing. 

_She said, ‘Sorry I asked.’_

_I don’t think anybody was interested._

It seems like he anticipates it, now. It’s like even before he opens his mouth, he can hear the response in his head: _shut up. Nobody cares._

Sam knows what that’s like, though. He hears his dad’s voice whenever he’s upset: _Pull it together. Stop crying. Take it like a man._

Or, _Freak._

It seemed like such a small thing, in the moment, but over time, it’s left a bigger scar than Sam ever would’ve imagined. 

How many people had to walk away before Spencer learned? How many times do you have to hear something before it becomes a part of you? 

Sam almost turns up the music, ready to drown out his own thoughts, but he thinks better of it. Instead he says, “What’s your favorite thing you’ve learned lately?” 

Without missing a beat, Spencer answers, “Koalas have such similar fingerprints to those of humans that they can affect crime scene analysis.” 

“How did anybody figure that out?” Sam asks, startled into laughter. “I mean, who was going around fingerprinting koalas?” 

“Actually,” Spencer starts, and he sits up straight, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he goes into lecture mode. Sam turns the radio off and just listens. 

-

When Spencer comes out of the gas station, juggling two extra large coffee cups, the last smudges of deep orange are fading from the horizon, and the flat farmland that surrounds them looks eerie in the dim purple dusk. Aside from the run-down yellow fluorescents of the gas station, he can barely see any lights, and they’re far off in the distance. 

He pauses, for a moment. He can’t remember the last time he went somewhere without a plan, a schedule, a responsibility, without Hotch giving a curt _wheels up_ or a nurse reminding him that visiting hours are almost over. He’s out in the middle of nowhere, somewhere between sunset and darkness, and for a moment he doesn’t feel like himself. 

He feels _free_. It’s unsettling. 

Sam’s leaning back against the car, looking up at the sky. He doesn’t say anything, just acknowledges Spencer with a little half-smile and gets back in the car. Spencer passes him one coffee and they both take a sip, make a face, and exchange cups. Then they’re on the road again, driving through another goddamn cornfield. Spencer’s never known anything good to happen at night in a cornfield. 

He picks up his phone idly, wondering what the team is up to. 

“Still haven’t called, huh?” Sam asks, without taking his eyes off the road. 

Spencer slouches down in the seat and puts his feet up on the dash, feeling inexplicably guilty. 

“I don’t want to go _back_ right away, exactly,” he tries to explain. 

“You just want to be needed,” Sam fills in. “I know the feeling.” 

“I guess so. I don’t really feel like myself, if I don’t have a job to do.” Spencer picks up his phone again, almost compulsively, and twirls it in his fingers. 

Sam breaks the silence: “Even though I’m still mad at Dean… I don’t know.” 

“You miss him?” Spencer asks quietly. On the little pixelated screen of his phone, JJ shows up next to the number two in his speed-dial list. 

“I couldn’t forgive anyone else who did that,” Sam admits. “If it was anyone else, I don’t think I’d ever speak to them again.” 

“But Dean’s different,” Spencer prompts. 

“Dean’s… yeah. He’s been the biggest thing in my life, as long as I can remember.” Sam lets out a huff of a sigh. “I don’t know who I’d be without him. Is that — fuck, I don’t know. That can’t be healthy.” 

“I’m probably not the best judge of that,” Spencer says with a shrug. 

“It’s the job, too. We talked about that — remember? You said...” 

Spencer remembers the church basement, back when they first met. He remembers the way his hands shook when he spoke, and he remembers the jittery over-caffeinated conversations that followed. 

“I said I didn’t think I could quit the job,” Spencer finishes. “Yeah.” 

“The job’s such a huge part of me.” Sam’s mouth twitches into a frown. “And Dean… Dean’s the only part of my life I know will always be there. He’s _home_. If you take me away from those things it’s like — I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s left.” 

When Spencer thinks of home, he still thinks of his mother and her bookshelves. If he stripped that away, carved out the stories he’s read, the stories he’s told himself, his mother’s influence… no. There wouldn’t be much left of him.

“I can’t imagine growing up without a permanent place to call home,” he admits. “Without somewhere to keep all my books.” 

Sam snorts. “Yeah.” 

A thought occurs to Spencer, all at once: “What did you mean, yesterday? You said ‘Well, actually,’ when I said I was surprised you hadn’t died in a place like that.” 

“Should’ve known you’d catch that,” Sam says resignedly. 

Spencer has to close his eyes for a second. “Are you saying —” 

“Yeah.” 

“You mean —” 

“Yeah,” Sam says again, gently. 

Spencer’s hands are shaking, but he says, “Tell me.” 

-

“And then we just woke back up in the motel room,” Sam finishes. 

Spencer is breathing, at least; Sam can hear him, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, harsh but steady. 

Eventually, Spencer nods to himself and says, “Okay,” 

“Okay? Really?” 

“Well, no, not really,” he says waspishly. “You just told me heaven exists and you’ve _been there._ ” 

“Yeah, fair enough,” Sam mumbles. 

“I just need some time to process,” Spencer replies. 

“Whatever you need.” 

There’s a long pause. Sam can see Spencer wrestling with something: he’s still, scowling, eyes fixed very intently on nothing. 

“Did I ever tell you how I ended up on Dilaudid?” he finally asks, in a thin, strained voice. 

“Something about… being kidnapped?” He’d gotten a garbled, rushed version of the story, but he had a feeling there was more to it. 

“Tobias. He’d been beaten by his dad his whole life, tortured, just… indoctrinated with this twisted version of Christianity. He was doing drugs, basically his whole life, to cope.” 

And Sam thought _his_ dad had messed him up. 

“There’s more to it, but the important part is, when his dad passed, Tobias experienced a psychotic break.” Spencer sounds agitated, like he’s reliving it as he tells the story, and Sam doesn’t understand why he feels the need to talk about this right now. “He split into three personalities: himself, his father, and an angel named Raphael, and…” 

“You don’t have to —” Sam starts, but Spencer barrels on. 

“Tobias was the one who injected me, gave me the same stuff he’d been taking for so long, to let me get away from the pain for a little while. He was trying to _help_. It was Raphael and the father who tortured me,” Spencer says, all in a rush. “And at one point… I died, actually. And I — I saw figures, and light, and… I always wondered.” 

Oh.

Spencer’s staring out the window at the endless cornfields. For a moment, his face is illuminated by the headlights of a passing car, and Sam knows that expression on his face: like the memory is more real than the world around him. He’s seeing someone who’s long gone.

“How did you —” 

“Tobias… he gave me CPR. The team told me later, he’d been fighting his dad, trying to get control. Managed it just long enough to save my life.” 

Sam’s stomach churns. “He really just… he _turned into_ his dad?” 

“He didn’t know how to live without his dad there telling him what to do, so…” Spencer sounds like he’s a million miles away. “His dad had such a hold on him, he couldn’t ever get away.” 

Sam thinks of Lucifer, standing in the corner of the room, following him, reminding him he’d never really be able to escape. 

His chest feels tight, suddenly, like he can’t get enough air. 

“I think — I think we should stop for the night,” he manages. His voice breaks. “Just a couple more hours to New Orleans, but — I could use some rest.” 

Spencer turns, visibly concerned, but all he says is, “Yeah. That sounds good.” 

-

Spencer thought about this question all night. He knows he has to ask. 

“We’ll be there by lunchtime,” Sam says. “You okay?” 

“Fine,” Spencer insists, but he can tell Sam’s not buying it. 

“I was practicing,” Sam says, pulling a quarter from his pocket, obviously trying to cheer Spencer up. “Still can’t get the hang of it.” 

The waitress bustles over and refills their coffee, and Spencer manages something like a smile in thanks. He adds cream, then sugar, and stirs carefully. 

Sam drops the quarter on the table with a clatter, and he glares like the coin has personally offended him. 

“You said… about heaven,” Spencer says. Sam looks at him sharply. “You get to relive the happy memories?” 

“Yeah.” 

“How do they decide?” Spencer takes a cautious sip and adds more sugar. “You know. Who goes to heaven. Is there… what if there are… circumstances?”

“You’ve dedicated your whole life to putting away serial killers, I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.” 

“No…” Spencer takes a deep breath. His lungs don’t seem to want to expand. “Not me.” 

“Oh. Well, the angels weigh what you did, in life. Sometimes God intervenes. Sometimes it comes down to just… one specific event, if you did something — something that tipped the scales.” 

“Do you… are other people there? With you?” 

“Sometimes, yeah.” Sam sounds concerned. “What’s this about?” 

Spencer stares down into his mug for a second, trying to separate himself from the story. 

“I was digging my grave, when they got there. My team showed up, and — they distracted him, and I grabbed his gun.” 

“Who… oh. _Oh._ ” 

Spencer has to pause and clear his throat before he continues. “I shot him. And his dad was gone, at the end. It was just him. So I sat with him, while he died, and the last thing he said to me was, ‘Do you think I’ll get to see my mom again?’ And I’ve always sort of wondered, if — if he would.” 

“Even after —” Sam makes a helpless little gesture. “After all that… you’re worrying about him?” 

“It wasn’t _him_. Not really,” Spencer says fiercely. “He saved my life, and — it wasn’t easy, to do that. He had to _fight_.” His voice falters. 

Sam doesn’t respond right away. He frowns down at his own coffee, lost in thought. The mug looks tiny in his hands. 

“Valuing life,” Sam says hesitantly. “ _Your_ life. To the point where he could disobey his father — that has to mean something.” 

“Do you think maybe… do you think the angels know that? Do you think it would be enough?” Spencer can’t help but press. 

“I think… yeah.” Sam smiles, but it’s a sad smile; it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It might be. It _should_ be enough.” 

“Good.” 

Spencer is embarrassed, suddenly, but he can breathe again. He reaches across the table and nudges the quarter closer to Sam. 

The smile looks easier now. Sam holds the coin up with a look of intense concentration. “I just can’t —” 

“Relax, you’ve got it in a death grip.” 

“Like this?” 

“Better.” Something occurs to him abruptly, like cold fingers around his ribcage. “Sam?” 

“Yeah?” He makes a twitchy little gesture. The quarter slips out of his grasp and he scowls. 

“Those six months,” Spencer asks, before he can think better of it. “Is that where you were?” 

Sam freezes for a second, staring down at the table, before he slowly raises his eyes to meet Spencer’s gaze. He looks smaller, somehow. Spencer knows the answer even before Sam shakes his head. 

“Never mind.” Spencer grabs the quarter, holding it up, and says firmly, “Watch.” 

“Okay.” Sam nods and blinks, trying to refocus. “Sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” He knows that look all too well. 

-

The air in New Orleans is thick and muggy. It feels like walking through soup as they step out of the coffee shop air conditioning. 

“What’s the Museum of Death?” Sam asks, doing a double-take at a sign as they pass. Spencer makes a dismissive noise. 

“Autopsy bags and letters from serial killers,” he says, disdainful. 

“So basically an average Tuesday for either of us,” Sam says, laughing. 

“Pretty much.” Spencer wrinkles his nose and nods in agreement. He leads the way, turning onto Conti Street and saying cheerfully, “This way.” 

“Remind me again why we’re going to a cemetery?” Sam asks wryly. 

“It’s not just a cemetery, it’s a historic landmark! And… cemeteries are interesting?” 

Sam just grins, dodging around a crowd of tourists coming in the opposite direction. 

“It’s not what I expected,” he comments, thinking out loud, as they pass a crowded cafe patio. 

“The city?” 

“It’s kind of amazing, how much they rebuilt after Katrina.” 

“This area wasn’t hit, really, but yes. It is,” Spencer agrees. “Especially considering the certainty that it’ll happen all over again.” 

“Really? I thought they added more protection, after. Flood walls.” 

“They did. The city spent twenty billion dollars to build three hundred and fifty miles of levees and walls and gates…” Spencer trails off, squinting up at a street sign. “But it’s not enough.” 

“So it’s just a matter of time?” Sam asks, following him across the crosswalk. 

“It’s meant to reduce damage, not prevent it. The probability of another Katrina-level storm increases with the acceleration of climate change, but even without taking that into account, the city will almost certainly flood again within the next hundred years.” 

“Then what?” Sam asks, gesturing around them at the busy, colorful street. “What will they do?” 

“I guess they’ll rebuild again.” 

“Even though they know it’s doomed?” 

“It’s their home. People are funny like that.” Spencer gives him a twisted half-smile as they walk through the gate of St. Louis Cemetery 1, but his expression goes soft and sad. “I guess we should consider ourselves lucky there’s anything left.” 

They’re quiet for a minute, walking through the maze of old stone monuments. Some are just gigantic slabs, covered in patches of moss and lichen. Others are ornate, elaborate statues. Sam brushes his fingers over one, where the stone has been worn down by the decades until the letters carved in it are barely more than slight grooves in the rock. They’ll be illegible soon. 

“Ever think about what you’ll leave behind?” Sam asks. 

“Doesn’t everyone?” Spencer pauses and then adds, self-consciously, “Kids, I hope. What about you?” 

Sam laughs mirthlessly. “Kids are probably not in the cards for me.” 

“Stories,” Spencer suggests. “Everything you’ve done? There’ll be some good stories.” 

“I guess.” 

Spencer stops short, frowning, eyes distant as he works through something. 

“Everything about… heaven, and hell, and the rest of it,” he starts slowly. “That doesn’t change what happens to the _physical_ body after death, does it?” 

Sam debates for a second, wondering whether he should get into vessels and possession, but this doesn’t feel like the time. 

“Not really, no. Magic can preserve the body, I guess. Why?” 

“Good,” Spencer says, with a sigh of relief. “I’ve always found that comforting.” 

“What?” 

“Decomposition,” Spencer says. Sam can hear the unspoken _duh_. “You know. Decay.” 

“That’s morbid even for you,” Sam points out. 

Spencer makes a face at him. “No, I mean… I like the idea that even when my consciousness is gone, or my soul, or whatever you want to call it, my body will still be here, in one form or another.” 

“Huh.” 

“Whether I rot, or burn, or… no matter what happens to me, the same atoms that made up me will go on to be part of so many other things.” He scuffs his feet along the path as he walks, idle and almost childlike, lost in thought. “Parts of me will be there when the sun starts to swallow up the planets. Parts of me might see a supernova, or a black hole, or the birth of a new star. After Earth as we know it is gone, all those tiny pieces of me might end up in some new planet, or in some new form of consciousness.” 

“You get to contribute something to whatever happens next.” 

“Even if that’s all that’s left. It could be the starting point for —” Spencer shrugs, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Sorry. I just think it’s neat.” 

“It’s a legacy,” Sam says quietly, and Spencer beams. 

“Exactly.” 

-

It’s only been five years, but it might as well have been a lifetime ago that Spencer sat in this same bar with Gideon. The sofa is the same, even if the velvet is slightly faded under his hands. Ethan’s the same, aside from his hair; it’s longer, tied back in a ponytail, and there’s a thin streak of grey at his temple. And Spencer’s the same person, really. He’d _like_ to distance himself from the person he was then, and more importantly, from that time in his life. He was angry and ashamed and full of doubt, and he was so _young_. But he’s the same person, when it comes down to it: same atoms, same genes, same old story. 

When he looks back at that conversation with Gideon, it seems like a turning point. It was one of those moments where his story could’ve gone in a very different direction. 

If this was a story, he thinks, there’d be a clear resolution. This should be some sort of full circle. It should be significant. Spencer should be learning a big lesson. 

Instead, he’s being handed a shot glass by a man who’s legally dead. 

“I asked for the sweetest thing they had,” Sam says, doing his best not to laugh as he sets another drink on the table in front of Spencer. “See if that’s enough sugar for you.” 

It’s violently pink and topped with a little paper umbrella. Spencer takes a tentative sip and brightens up. “That’s more like it.” 

“Bottoms up, then,” Sam says cheerfully. He’s drinking whiskey like it’s water. 

Sam promised that Spencer won’t notice the burn, after a couple more rounds, but apparently he’s not there yet. The shot of vodka still makes him sputter and gasp. 

“Ugh,” he declares, and washes it down with — “Do I want to know what this is called?” 

Sam shrugs. “Are you particularly attached to traditional concepts of masculinity?” 

“What do you think?” Spencer says acerbically. “Look at me.” 

“Just drink the pink thing.” 

Spencer rolls his eyes and drinks the pink thing. He pulls a quarter out of his pocket, flipping it between his fingers as he thinks. 

“D’you ever wish you could just… read your life in a book?” Spencer asks. 

Sam laughs like he’s missing a joke. “Overrated.” 

“What?” 

“Never mind.” 

“If there’s a deeper meaning, I’d like to know,” Spencer tells him. Sam grabs the coin, determined, and promptly drops it. 

“You mean… to life, the universe, and everything? Are we seriously going into this right now?” Sam raises his glass in a toast. “You’re thinking too much. We should fix that.” 

Spencer frowns and drinks. “The narrative doesn’t feel coherent.” 

“No, I guess it doesn’t,” Sam replies. He picks the quarter up again and plays with it idly, eyes on the stage as Ethan finishes a song. “But… at least we get to choose our own ending, right?” 

Spencer shrugs and claps, and he can see Ethan smiling in their direction. 

“Hey!” Sam says, and Spencer turns just in time to see him waving a triumphantly empty hand. “I think I did it!” 

“Because you weren’t overthinking it,” Spencer says sagely. 

“I’m sorry, which one of us was just talking about the meaning of the universe?” 

Spencer gives him a shit-eating grin and raises his glass. “May I recommend the pink thing?” 

-

“You do know where we’re going, right?” Sam asks, stopping on the corner. He squints, trying to make the street name stay still. 

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Of course I do. I memorized the map.” He frowns, looking to the left and then the right, before walking straight forward, dodging a handsy bachelorette, and continuing down Bourbon Street. He’s doing a pretty good job with the walking, all things considered; Sam poured so much alcohol into him he should probably be horizontal right now. Spencer sort of just looks like a marionette, holding his long limbs stiff but bending a little too much at the joints, like his knees could very well give out and send him toppling sideways. 

Sam has a gut feeling that they’re going in the wrong direction, but he doesn’t know what the _right_ direction is, either. He also kind of wants to see how long it’ll take Spencer to admit that he’s lost. 

Half a block later, he amends his original question: “You do know where we _are_ , right? Are you sure you don’t want to just take a taxi?” 

“We’re very close to a crime scene I investigated almost five years ago,” Spencer says, looking vaguely insulted. “There was a missing ear. I made a mental map of everything within a half-mile radius in our efforts to narrow the search.” 

“I… what?” Sam asks, rubbing his eyes as he tries to figure out what that means. “I don’t understand how your brain works, sometimes.”

“Yes. I know where we are.” Spencer stops short. There’s a blonde girl flashing him enthusiastically, and he pointedly averts his eyes until she wanders away. 

Sam can’t help but ask: “Do you _still_ know where we are?”

“Yes,” Spencer mutters, making a face. “I just… didn’t want to accidentally bump into her.” 

“You were three feet away.” 

“My depth perception isn’t great right now,” Spencer replies, which… yeah, okay, that’s probably _exactly_ what happened. “You know, there are about as many neurons in the human brain as there are stars in the Milky Way galaxy. Around one hundred billion. And we know about as much about the way the brain functions as we do about deep space, which is to say, not much at all.” 

Sam follows that twisty mental path for a second. “So you’re saying I should probably stop trying to understand your brain and leave it up to NASA?”

“Well, not exactly. Just that I don’t think we’ll ever be able to understand how any of our brains work. Not really. From a cosmic perspective, we’re so small as to be insignificant, but on the inside...” 

“Like a TARDIS,” Sam offers. 

Sam looks at him, perplexed, and then Sam watches a grin spread over his face as he gets it: “Bigger on the inside?”

“Bigger on the inside,” Sam confirms, and then they’re both laughing so hard they almost walk right into the middle of a rapidly escalating drunken brawl. 

“Yikes,” Spencer opines, once they’re in the clear. 

“I don’t know if that makes me feel more or less in control.” 

“Of the contents of your own head?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I didn’t say it was reassuring. But… what was I saying?” Spencer makes a visible effort to relocate his train of thought. “Galaxies! That’s what we came from, right? Stardust, a singularity, and now we’re walking around on our very own chunk of rock, with little galaxies of our own in our skulls.” 

“I never thought about it that way.” 

“Also? Our blood is mostly water, and the plasma between the red blood cells has almost the same concentration of salt and ions as seawater. Life on Earth started that way: single-celled organisms, drifting in the ocean, and now… here we are. We’re full of red blood cells floating in our very own ocean. ” 

“What do you think that means?”

“It means… um. Does that mean something? I don’t remember where I was going with that. I might be drunk.” 

“Probably that.” Sam turns it over fuzzily in his head for a moment before saying, “We mirror what we evolved from.”

“Right!” Spencer exclaims. “What we come from… it’s part of us. Our origins are always part of us.” 

Sam smiles, getting distracted by the thought and tripping over his own feet. “Are we almost back to the hotel?” 

“Another cool thing? If you drown in salt water, your lungs bleed. So if you’re drowning in the ocean you’re really drowning in a mixture of ocean and your own blood.”

“ _Jesus_. Okay. Let’s get you back to the hotel.” 

Spencer stops short at the corner of another intersection. “Which way?” 

“I thought — oh, for fuck’s sake. Do you know where we are?” 

“No idea,” Spencer says blithely. He gives Sam a trusting, albeit unfocused, smile. Sam really wants to be irritated, but he also wants to make Spencer drink several glasses of water and then tuck him into bed. 

“I know you’re technically older than me, but is this what it’s like to have a younger brother?” he wonders out loud. “ _Shit_. Time to find a taxi.” 

-

“I think it’s this one,” Spencer says, pointing to the restaurant where he’s supposed to be meeting Ethan. 

“No, seriously, how am _I_ the one who feels like shit right now?” Sam mumbles, rubbing his eyes. 

“Probably because years of alcohol consumption have made your liver enzymes less effective,” Spencer tells him. “And I drank less than you, technically. Also, I have a very low percentage of body fat, which — that was a rhetorical question, wasn’t it?” He makes a face and rubs his forehead. Sam might be in _worse_ shape, but Spencer isn’t really feeling his best. 

“There he is,” Sam says, pointing across the crowded patio. 

“Sure you don’t want to stay?” 

“Nah, I’ll give you time to catch up. I’m just going to… curl up and die, probably. Text me when you’re finishing up.” 

Sam raises his hand in a wave and ambles off, and Spencer makes his way over to join Ethan at the table. There’s a cup of coffee waiting for him already. 

“You’re wonderful,” he says. 

“You talkin’ to me or the coffee?” 

“Both.” The waiter comes over, and Spencer orders lemon ricotta stuffed French toast, extra whipped cream, “— and maybe more sugar?” 

He tucks the pile of empty packets into a neat stack on his saucer, and Ethan laughs. 

“At least some things never change. Still haven’t kicked the sugar habit, huh?” 

“There are worse vices.” Spencer stirs it again and takes a long sip, savoring it. 

“Speaking of,” Ethan says slowly, and Spencer rolls his eyes. 

“Do we need to talk about it?” He needs at least half a pot of coffee before any serious conversations happen this morning. 

“Nah, I don’t need the details. Just —” Ethan tilts his head, eyes narrowing, and Spencer is reminded that he would’ve made an excellent profiler. “It’s good, seeing you like this.” 

Spencer shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal. It’s not like — I don’t know.” 

He always feels awkward talking about this. He recovered quickly, all things considered, and it was never _serious_. 

“You were a goddamn mess last time I saw you,” Ethan replies. “I mean it. Good for you.” 

“I was lucky,” Spencer says dismissively. “The team — my friends helped. Sam.” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“What?” 

“Give other people the credit. Friends help, but it’s all you, in the end. _You_ did that.” 

Spencer frowns. “I guess.” 

“I didn’t actually mean the drugs, anyway,” Ethan says, shaking his head. “I just meant that you seem happier. What else have you been up to?” 

“Nothing, really,” Spencer admits. 

“Bullshit.” 

“No, I — nothing has changed, that’s the thing.” Their food arrives, and Spencer takes a moment to think while he eats a few bites. Then he continues, “I have the same job, I live in the same apartment… Sam’s the only new friend I’ve made, outside of work. This is the only trip I’ve taken that wasn’t to see my mom.”

“So?”

“It feels like I should have something to show for it,” Spencer says uncomfortably. “Something… significant, I guess. It’s been almost five years.” 

“But —” 

Whatever he was about to say is interrupted by the aggressive buzz of Spencer’s cell phone vibrating on the table. Spencer can’t deny that his heart leaps when he sees Hotch’s name on the screen. He glances apologetically at Ethan, who just waves it off with a grin. 

“Hotch?” 

“Reid. I’m sorry to cut your break short, but something’s come up. How soon can you be in Atlanta?” 

Spencer does the mental math. “Six or seven hours, give or take?” 

“Good. We’ll meet you there. I’ll have Garcia send you the details.” 

“See you there,” Spencer says, and he smiles as he snaps the phone shut. 

Ethan’s laughing at him. “There it is.” 

“What?” 

“Remember last time?” 

“You mean when I didn’t pick up the phone?” Spencer shovels a few more bites of food into his mouth and flags the waiter, then says, “What are you getting at?”

“You said nothing had changed, but it’s obvious you’re happier.” 

“That’s not exactly a _big_ change,” Spencer argues. “It’s not significant. Not really.” 

“Like hell it’s not.” Ethan settles back in his chair, arms crossed. “That’s what I was trying to tell you, five years ago. It’s the _only_ significant thing.” 

It takes Spencer by surprise, hearing it put that simply. He considers it for a moment, while Ethan smirks, but then he remembers that he has somewhere to be. 

“I’m sorry, I wish I could stay,” he says, with genuine regret. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Ethan says firmly. “Go be a hero.” 

-

“Hiya, Sammy.” 

“Hey,” Sam says, relieved. “You picked up.” 

“Course I did,” Dean says gruffly. 

Sam shouldn’t have doubted it, really. 

“I… listen, are you anywhere near Atlanta?” 

“No, but I can be,” Dean says, without hesitation. “Gimme a day.” 

“Yeah? That’s… cool. Sounds good.” 

They both pause, but Dean breaks the silence: “We okay? Do we need to talk about this?” 

“Probably should, but… ” 

“You already know — I mean, right?” 

They’ve done this often enough. Sam knows.

“Yeah.” 

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Dean says quietly. He hangs up before Sam can say anything else. 

Spencer doesn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t listening. He remarks, “That was easy.” 

“I guess. It’s what we do, though.” Sam shrugs and tosses his backpack into the trunk. “No matter how many times we walk away, we always end up back where we started.” 

“You all ready? Sure you don’t want me to drive?” 

“ _Very_ fucking sure.” 

Sam starts the car. It feels like he’s going home. 

-

_Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself. To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting._

_\- E E Cummings_


End file.
